


deadlines are sexy, steve rogers

by maximoffs



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 8am blowjobs, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends With Benefits, Humor, M/M, STEVE ROGERS IS TRYING HIS BEST, Writer/Literary Agent AU, some light harassment at the expense of writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25160119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximoffs/pseuds/maximoffs
Summary: “I specifically rented you a cabin in the middle of nowhere so you wouldn’t be distracted.”“Yeah, I know— I get that. But the things you find distracting and the things I find distracting turned out not to be the same.”“Steve,” Bucky says, and here Steve can almost imagine him— he looks just like a bird— indignant and disappointed in the inherent fallibility of mankind. Pacing in his expensive suit, around his expensive office, ruining the effects of his expensive face cream by frowning too much. “You’re a writer. Your greatest talent is turning everything around you into a distraction so that you don’t have to write.”OR: when the writer you're personally responsible for needs more... creative ways to be inspired
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 23
Kudos: 268





	deadlines are sexy, steve rogers

**Author's Note:**

> usually i have a fun little excuse for why i decided not to edit my fic but tonight you get no excuses! i just didn't feel like it! i hate editing, and now you know. if there are any grammatical errors, i don't want to hear about them. if there is a general misunderstanding of what a literary agent actually does, keep it to yourselves. besides that i love you all and thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy!

“I _need_ you to focus,” Bucky is saying, from the other end of the line, voice stern and rapidly losing patience.

Steve can’t blame him. He’s not focused. He has no intention of focusing. Not when every morning there’s a new trail to hike, or a sunrise too beautiful to ignore. He makes a roast from Sumatra in his French press and watches for the pine grosbeak in the trees behind his cabin. It’s been days since he’s seen him, but Steve knows he’ll come back around. Knows that squinty, pinched face and proud tilt of the head. How, then, can he focus, can he _write_ , when there’s so much going on?

Steve looks out the window at the lakefront view his agent has so kindly arranged for him, and he sighs. Loudly, before he can help himself.

“I didn’t say anything to warrant that,” Bucky says now, bringing Steve back to the present. 

“I know, I know,” Steve says. “I’m sorry. Look, there’s a lot going on out here— ”

“I specifically rented you a cabin in the middle of nowhere so you wouldn’t be distracted.”

“Yeah, I know— I get that. But the things _you_ find distracting and the things _I_ find distracting turned out not to be the same.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, and here Steve can almost imagine him— he looks just like a bird— indignant and disappointed in the inherent fallibility of mankind. Pacing in his expensive suit, around his expensive office, ruining the effects of his expensive face cream by frowning too much. “You’re a writer. Your greatest talent is turning everything around you into a distraction so that you don’t have to write.”

“That… was low.”

A hum from the other end of the line.

“That was low, Bucky.”

“Your first five chapters were due two weeks ago. At least send me what you have.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to be quiet.

“Steve? Send me what you have.”

Silence.

“Steve?” 

Steve can hear rustling, and then rapid typing. The printer starts up. For himself, he holds his breath, looking out the window. Focusing real hard on the ripples of the lake, in the hopes that doing so will somehow guard him from the pulsing, feral rage radiating off of Bucky and heading the 350 miles in Steve’s direction. 

“What, uh,” Steve says, tentatively, “what are you doing?”

When Bucky doesn’t respond, Steve plops himself down on the couch, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Are you having some kind of… heart attack?” 

The typing pauses. “Do you know what a heart attack sounds like, Steven?”

“Do you mean for human men or for terrifying publishing industry robots who disguise themselves as human men to prey on the innocent?”

“Ha.” 

“I’m serious.”

“Clearly I don’t terrify you enough.”

“You sound hurt,” Steve says, because somehow, Bucky does.

“Have you ever heard of a partnership, Steven?”

“Why am I ‘Steven’ when you’re mad?”

“I’m always mad. Answer the question.”

“I know what— ”

“A partnership,” Bucky interrupts, “is when two people work together. What you and I have is not a partnership. Maybe it was, once, two— three books ago. Now, it’s a headache.”

“Are you… firing me?”

Bucky makes a noise that sounds like he’s screaming into a pillow. Steve waits, patiently, while this is going on. Bucky’s soft breath on the other line indicates he’s finished.

“I’m sorry, Buck. I’m not trying to disrespect you; I really am just having a hard time with this one.”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“I’m coming to Vermont.”

Before Steve can say another word (the word being— “No” or “Don’t” or “Wait”), Bucky has already hung up. 

  
  


***

  
  


He arrives the next day, at 8am sharp. He’s dressed more like a federal agent than a literary one, in a dark suit and dark sunglasses. He’s clean-shaven, and his shoes are immaculately polished. No one has ever looked more out of place. 

Steve greets him in a plaid button-down and socked feet. “Hi,” he says, smiling, sheepish. 

“Hi,” Bucky answers, curtly, and hands him his bag as he steps inside. 

“You really didn’t have to come all the way out. I would have— ”

“What,” Bucky says, pulling off his shoes, “not written some more?”

“I guess I deserve that.”

“Is the coffee on?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “You want a tour?”

“That’s not necessary. I took a virtual one when I booked you the place.”

“Jesus,” Steve says, under his breath, and leads Bucky into the kitchen. He pours him a mug, and then pauses. “I don’t have any oat milk.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, leaning against the counter. The sun is streaming into the sink from the window above it and when Bucky turns his profile to avoid looking right into it he looks like a movie star, one strand of hair dislodging, resting against his forehead. “I’ll take it black.”

“Come on,” Steve says, handing him the mug. “Let me at least show you the view.”

Bucky looks at him for a moment, imperceptible and sharp. He follows Steve out onto the deck anyway, where he’s greeted by a blue so clear it almost— _almost_ — makes him stop and appreciate it. Where the sky and the lake meet is magic. On the deck there are two cushioned objects that could pass as chairs, if you were to squint, and a coffee table between them, a couple of empty beer bottles on it. Bucky makes a mental note of these things, though he doesn’t say anything.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Steve says.

“Mm.”

“You’re upset.”

“That you couldn’t even do me the decency of keeping me updated?”

“I didn’t… realize how much time had passed.” 

“Mm,” Bucky says again. He looks like a disappointed principal in a very expensive Gucci blazer. Before Steve can reply, Bucky takes his coffee out of his hands and sets both mugs down on the coffee table. He seems to hesitate for a moment, before taking his sunglasses off and setting them neatly down as well. 

“I wasn’t finished.”

“I see that,” Bucky says. He puts his hands on Steve’s hips and walks him backward until his back is against the glass doors. “Tell me what you need.” 

“My coffee would have been a good start,” Steve mumbles, half-heartedly, unable to look away from the hyperfocus in Bucky’s eyes. 

“Really.”

“Mhm,” Steve says, and kisses him. It’s light and casual, catching Bucky’s mouth before he uses it again, before he says anything else about _deadlines_ or _responsibility_ or _what having a lucrative career in writing entails_. Bucky, in return, kisses back hard enough to bruise. Steve can’t tell if this is a new form of punishment; and he certainly isn’t about to mention that it’s having the opposite effect on him. Bucky’s tongue finds his, distracting him while his hands unbutton Steve’s jeans and tug them down his hips.

“Oh— ” Steve says, part-surprised, part-pleased, “you wanna do that here?”

“You don’t have neighbors,” Bucky says, smoothly, getting onto his knees. He slips Steve’s boxers down; they pool at his feet. “I made sure of it.” 

“Yeah, but— mm.”

“Are you going to talk the entire time?” Bucky asks, looking up. 

“No.”

“Do you have any objections to having your dick sucked?”

“No.”

“Good,” Bucky says, and gets back to it. From the corner of his eye, Steve can see the pine grosbeak take his perch on a nearby branch.

When they head back inside, Bucky pushes Steve into the chair at his desk, in front of his Macbook, and begins rummaging in the drawers. “Where are your notes?”

“In my head,” Steve says, repressing a sigh. Knowing Bucky will hate this answer. 

Bucky straightens up; he seems to be gathering himself. Steve wonders, briefly, how someone so uptight can give such good head. 

“I’m taking a shower,” Bucky says, and leaves the room without another word. Steve opens up his document and works for the next five and a half hours. When he emerges from his uncharacteristically productive session, Bucky has ordered Chinese; he’s setting the table. Steve stands, as quietly as possible, and watches him. His hair has dried and he’s brushed it back. He’s wearing an impossibly soft, dark sweater and dark jeans. It nearly makes Steve’s breath catch, but Bucky looks up, and notices him, and Steve has to clear his throat to get back to normal. 

“I didn’t know I could get delivery out here,” he says.

“You can get anything you want if you’re demanding enough.”

“Is that how you operate?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You can tell me if it’s working. Sit.” 

Although it goes against every basic principle of Steve’s personality not to argue when someone tells him to do something, even if he was debating whether to do it in the first place, he sits. He is too tired from staring at his computer screen, from trying to describe the Great Hiking Trails of the Northeast in all of their intricate, beautiful detail. Hiking trails don’t exist to be _described_. They exist to be hiked. Steve would rather be out on one, now, maybe even with Bucky by his side, than cooped up in a room where he has to draw the curtains closed as to minimize any and all outside distractions. 

“How did it go?” Bucky asks, with no pretense of small talk.

“Better,” Steve says. He reaches for the carton of rice. “There’s beer in the fridge, if you want.”

It’s Miller Lite, to Bucky’s abject disgust, but he takes two bottles out anyway and hands Steve his. The easy domesticity between them is both familiar and off-putting, like having the same dream twice. When Steve looks at Bucky, who he has known on and off all his life, he not only sees the mischievous little boy who played soldiers and spies with him on the playground but also the man who shook his hand after signing off on Steve’s first book deal and then fucked him in a public bathroom. He sees his past and his present, and the only thing that seems to connect the two.

“Can we tell the publisher we’ll get something to them by the end of the week?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “I think I can make that happen. 

Bucky smiles. It’s the first smile, Steve realizes, of the day, and he thinks he remembers a time where Bucky smiled more. There are lines around his mouth— stress-related, deep. He looks like a man who hasn’t relaxed in years.

There’s a comfortable silence between them as they eat. And then Steve, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel, asks: “Do you do this for all of your clients?” 

Bucky’s chopsticks are halfway between his plate and his mouth when they come to a halt. He looks at Steve.

“I mean— coming all the way out, and— your level of involvement is just,” Steve says, stupidly. At least he has the grace to look sheepish. “You’re really... committed.”

Bucky completes his bite. He chews. He takes a sip of beer. 

“You’re my only client at the moment,” he finally says, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “And before you ask, no. I don’t sleep with the others.”

“That’s not what I was trying to— ”

Bucky gives him a look.

“It’s not!” Steve says, raising his hands in mock-surrender. “It’s not.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if it was,” Bucky says with a shrug. 

“You have your own life,” Steve says. “You can sleep with whoever you want. As many men as you like, in fact.”

“Are you done?”

“Yeah.”

“Pass me an eggroll.” 

***

  
  


“You put your bags in the guest room,” Steve says, later, when they’re lying in bed together. These are the rare moments when Bucky is affectionate; when Steve can lay his head on his bare chest and be assured that Bucky’s hands will eventually find their way into his hair. 

“I didn’t want to impose.” 

“I came in your mouth,” Steve says. “At 8 in the morning.”

“It was past 8,” Bucky murmurs, rubbing circles into Steve’s temples. 

Steve sits up, turning to look Bucky in the eyes. If Bucky is surprised or irritated by this, his expression stays completely neutral, his gaze even. 

“Why do you do that?” Steve asks. “Why do you act like everything we do is a business transaction?”

“It’s easier,” Bucky says. And maybe Steve isn’t entirely expecting an answer, because he’s surprised by this. He’s surprised, despite the fact that Bucky has been nothing but honest with him— sometimes to a fault— in the many years that they’ve known one another. “Feelings are messy and complicated. I don’t want to distract you from your passion.” 

“You think my passion is sitting in a room with a Macbook as my only company?”

“I think your passion is whatever keeps you outside,” Bucky says. “And since you can’t make a living by simply existing in the wilderness— ”

“I could try,” Steve interrupts.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Since you have to make ends meet somehow— ”

“You could come with me.” 

The right side of Bucky’s mouth twitches. It’s so quick— anyone else would have missed it. Steve doesn’t miss anything Bucky does in his presence. 

“Come on,” Bucky says, running a hand through his hair. “No one is _that_ good of a lay.” 

“It’s not just that,” Steve says, a little too quietly.

There’s a moment between them, where neither of them speaks. It’s a long moment. 

“And leave all my blazers behind?” Bucky asks, giving him a tight smile. 

Rather than responding— rather than continuing this fruitless conversation— Steve settles back against Bucky’s chest. When he was little, he used to get sick. Well-meaning relatives and neighbors and friends of the family would tell him things like, “enjoy the moment” and “remember to appreciate what you have.” Thinking he would die. Sometimes, around Bucky especially, he still thinks he will die. The feeling only escalates, taking him by surprise, when Bucky leans down and kisses him.

“Nature isn’t really my thing,” he says, so close to Steve’s mouth.

“I know.”

Bucky kisses him again. “But I might like it with you.”

A pause. “Really?”

“Mm.”

“You’d get your shoes dirty.”

“Yes,” Bucky says, laughing.

“And your hair products won’t be able to withstand the elevation at Mount Elbrus.”

“Wow,” Bucky says. “This has escalated.”

Steve sits up again, this time pleased, caught off guard. “Was that a mountain pun?”

“I promise you it was completely unintentional.”

“No,” Steve says, his smile slowly turning into a grin. “You made a mountain pun.”

“Shut up, you caveman.” Bucky catches his chin between his thumb and his index finger, and pulls him closer. Their mouths are a hair’s breadth away from one another. “Finish your book.” He kisses him. “Then you can plan your Russian volcano vacation.”

Steve puts a hand on his chest. He can feel the heat from him rising up, his warm body and his terrible mouth. “Are you going to stay on as my agent after this?”

Bucky shakes his head, slowly. “Not a chance.”

“That breaks my heart, Barnes.”

“I’ll find a way,” Bucky says, pushing Steve down on his back, “to make it up to you.”

“Does that include finding me a new agent?” Steve says, while Bucky’s mouth finds his favorite spot on his neck.

“Mm,” he says, licking. “I have someone in mind already.”

“Really?” Steve breathes out, snaking a hand up into Bucky’s hair. “Who?”

Bucky kisses down Steve’s neck and across his chest before he feels like answering. “His name,” he says, kissing Steve on the mouth, “is Tony Stark.”

“Is he uptight like you?”

“Oh,” Bucky says, kissing him again. “No.”

“That’ll be a nice change,” Steve says through a smirk.

Bucky pulls away, just so Steve can see the look in his terrible, evil eyes. He grins. “You are _really_ going to miss me, pal.”


End file.
